Reluctance
by amor-remanet
Summary: While digging for roots, the fallen Timon gets an unexpected visit from Apemantus. TimonApemantus SLASH. You have been warned. Feedback welcome.


"Reluctance," Timon/Apemantus slash, 814 words, PG for language and slashiness

"And how do I find you now, Timon? Digging for roots?"

It took all the restraint in the world to keep Timon from growling, and even more to keep him from rising to his feet and slapping that damnable Apemantus clear across his face. Luckily, he was tired, having slept little and, at that, on a bed of dirt that might have been rocks…and even if he hadn't been, he had better things to do than deal with that smug, self-righteous, pompous "philosopher." Like dig for roots, if he wanted to eat today, and, since he'd found only a meager helping of them yesterday, that was rather high on his list of priorities. Ignoring Apemantus, he returned to his foraging, digging his nails into the ground as though it were the philosopher's flesh. He peeled it back, imagining himself ripping red rivulets down those white arms, that thin chest, and marring that face…for being a whore's son, he'd gotten a beautiful, aristocratic face. Probably from his father, whoever that was. Maiming it forever would be such an _exquisite_ honor, and only Timon could do so properly. The gods _knew_ he needed some light in these dark days.

Suddenly, he felt something strike his bowed head; then he heard the thunk as it hit the ground, and the crinkling of the leaves as it rolled away. Looking up from his thus far fruitless searching, he saw an apple, bright, red, and nestling itself comfortably between two rocks without getting marred. He looked up further and glared at Apemantus, who reciprocated the gesture with an extra, hen-like ruffle of his untamed hair. As he looked away nonchalantly, he still moved closer, leaning on the pomegranate tree opposite Timon.

"Don't debase yourself further," he snapped. "Eat."

Timon spat as close to Apemantus' shoes as possible, only missing by a small margin.

"I brought it for you out of sympathy for your plight. Now eat."

"I would not eat food from you if I were already dead from starvation." Timon spat again; he was closer this time, but still missed.

Apemantus frowned at the spittle. "Being dead, it would be difficult for you."

"Especially when I have a pomegranate tree to rely on, if I am to find no roots."

"Now, _Timon_…a man like you…I would expect you, even in your current state, to remember your most basic stories of the gods."

"What do you mean by that?"

Sighing heatedly, Apemantus reached up to the nearest branch and placed his hand on each peace of fruit, testing each one for firmness. When he had found it, he took it in his hand and plucked it off…he looked so nonplussed for robbing Aphrodite's bosom. Looking like quite the impulsive schoolboy, rather than the world-weary philosopher who interrupted joyful parties and happy occasions, just to try and ruin everything. But he'd been right, hadn't he? The Athenians were superficial; they were fickle, and shallow, and avaricious; they had abandoned Apemantus at birth and left Timon at the wayside so readily…Alcibiades was the one exception to this, and Apemantus, apparently…he was still walking toward Timon, as if he _wanted_ to make the beggar, Misanthropos, dwell on his former life, and this realization that words were deeper and reality was not always what it seemed.

Apemantus knelt down, placing a knee in the soil and dangerously close to Timon.

"This fruit, Timon," he explained clearly. "This one, simple piece of fruit was so powerful that its seeds hold Persephone captive in the underworld. But that pomegranate was grown there. As this one was grown here, it is my suspicion that it would hold you captive here. Now…would you rather starve yourself on roots, but keep your freedom, or have some food of substance and remain here?"

As if to add weight to his argument for Timon to take a piece of fruit, Apemantus leaned in further, tilting his head and staring at Timon as though he were a piece of art. Then – with neither warning nor reason – Apemantus pressed his lips to the beggar's. The kiss was hard, full, and open-mouthed, serpentine and primal, bestial even; it tasted not like the carrots and apples that the philosopher lived off of, but the anguish of so long a life…it was bitter, but only faintly. Mostly, it tasted salty, and Timon soon found himself reciprocating the simple gestures as their deep meanings resonated in the pit of his chest. A surreptitious tongue slid in, but, as quickly as it all had started, Apemantus closed his mouth and pulled away. He and Timon traded glares for several moments – one processing what lust had just been enacted upon him and the other awaiting an answer with a quiet, detached desperation. Timon huffed to keep himself from smiling; he might have liked it, but this was still Apemantus.

"Fine then," he hissed. "Give me that damnéd fruit."


End file.
